


the georgian dynasty

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, FOUR GEORGE HARRISONS, Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, not one not two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29845041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: During a hangover and hesitancy to escape their shared flat, Ringo inexplicably gains three different-aged versions of his boyfriend.Life is great.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 29
Kudos: 31





	1. two georges

**Author's Note:**

> a big hug to my one and only [CelesteFitzgerald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteFitzgerald/pseuds/CelesteFitzgerald) for looking over this and bearing all my crap when this idea was born. love you mate!

Ringo had had enough of George. He was sick of him. Ever since their flat-sharing had turned into cohabitation and then weeks of drunken nights where they were at each other’s necks and rarely in bed together, Ringo had not-so-subtly been looking for ways to get the fuck out. 

He considered phoning Elsie and begging her to come get him. He thought of hauling his drums and himself over the balcony and booking it as George slept. He plotted to get so pissed he’d stumble into the council and _accidentally_ buy himself a new flat on the other side of town. 

He was gonna do it. He was _really_ gonna do it. There was just one problem. 

_“RITCHIEEEEEE!”_ George kicked down their kitchen door, drenched in gin and smoking three ciggies at once. “wHAT ARE YE DOIN’?”

“Makin’ supper, bitch.”

“It better not be yer fuckin’ _beans_ again,” George spat out all of his ciggies on the washrag and lit it on fire. 

“An’ what, pray tell, if it _is?”_

“Then I’ll shag yer _brains_ out right on this floor.”

Reeking clumsily of alc and whatever it was George had just smoked, they finished in time to take the pan off the stove. George scrambled up to comb for clean plates and lay the cutlery so Ringo could mop himself in peace. And at the table they kissed passionately again. Ringo barely stopped the pan from tipping all over the cloth as George pulled him down, hands squeezing either side of his face.

“Ye won’t wait a little?” Ringo joked.

“Can’t,” George rasped. “Love you.”

It was a fairly big problem. 

That night Ringo held George as he slept. George held him back tighter; held onto the back of his head and curled around his waist as if to physically prevent his plot of treachery. Ringo was maybe drunk as well, awaiting sleep or a blackout, but neither came. He stared at George’s sleeping face and thought _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ at him over and over. 

Around five in the morning he untangled himself. George’s grip had slackened from sinking into proper sleep. Ringo located his slippers in the dark and trudged to the loo, cursing at his cowardice. Last night had been abnormally peaceful, but it was only a matter of time before George gobbed his cigs on Ringo and set _him_ ablaze. Or even worse, himself. 

Ringo scoffed as he turned the corner and found an empty bottle of booze right in front of the loo door. He picked it up as he entered, nodding at the little boy who sat on the cover as he set it on the sink—

Ringo stared. 

The boy stared back. 

Ringo blinked. 

Fuckin’ hell was he hungover as shit. 

“Uh,” Ringo said. “Hello?”

The boy didn’t respond. He hugged himself and looked down at his stockinged feet. On which rubbing his eyes did Ringo realise was a baby onesie, and the boy barely a year old. Ringo found himself too confused to be terrified. Had George gone on a rampage and kidnapped some poor child? Or had _he,_ and gotten shagged while this poor baby sat locked in the loo?? 

“Who are you?” Ringo said as gently as his raw throat would allow. “It’s alright, see, I’m…. I’m your friend.”

The boy looked at him for a split second, wide-eyed. His eyes were a very, _very_ familiar shade of brown. 

“My name’s Ritchie,” Ringo said, leaning down to the boy. He had an odd feeling that he _knew_ this boy, but also that he didn’t at all. “What’s yours?”

The boy screwed his lips shut. He looked on the verge of tears.

“Oh god, please don’t,” Ringo whispered. “How ‘bout you come down from there and I give you somethin’ to eat? Eat?” He mimed scooping food into his mouth. “D’you get what I’m sayin’?”

The boy sniffled. 

“No, don’t!”

“Who the _fuck_ are ye talkin’ to,” George’s voice suddenly rang out. “Hurry up in there, I gotta take a shit—”

The door booted open as Ringo hoisted the baby into his arms. George’s scowl slowly turned into one of disbelief. The poor baby broke into a cry.

“Oh, for Chrissake!” Ringo hitched up the boy and bounced him slightly. “You’ve scared him!”

“Who’s that?” George backed away in horror. “Where’d you get the baby??”

“Excuse me?? Where’d _you_ get the baby???”

“You’re the one who’s holdin’ him!”

“No, I’m the one who _found_ ‘im!” Ringo said indignantly. “You’re the one who trekked out there and pissed yerself and god-knows-what!”

The baby started crying louder.

“What the fuck??? I DIDN’T KIDNAP THAT,” George wagged a finger at the child. “I dunno what you’re yappin’ about.”

Ringo shut the loo door and walked past him to the kitchen. “Oh really.”

“Like you do any better!” George seethed. “You shoulda seen yerself last night! You were fuckin’ ill! Ye could barely stand up in the kitchen!” 

“Yeah, well at least I was _home.”_

George curled his fists and let out a scream. The baby screamed louder. Ringo tried rubbing his head to calm him, and as he pushed the baby’s hair back he uncovered a tiny set of sticky-out ears. Of all the **_fucking_ ** things. He nearly shoved the boy into one of their chairs. 

“It’s okay it’s okay,” Ringo said instead. “We’re just gonna feed you some brekkie and send you home to mummy.”

At this the baby stopped.

“M-mummy?” 

“Yes, mummy! I’m sure she’s looking _everywhere_ for you,” Ringo said, shooting George a death glare. “D’you know what her name is?”

The boy paused. He shook his head.

“That’s okay! What ‘bout your name? What’s _your_ name? I’m Ritchie, and… that’s Georgie.” he added as George huffily made his way over. 

“Georgie,” said the boy. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” George groaned. 

“No,” the boy shook his head again. “Tha’s _me.”_

George blinked. It was his turn to groan and rub his eyes. 

“So you’re called Georgie too, huh?” Ringo said. “Okay Georgie, don’t ye worry. We’re just gonna make you some breakfast and send you to the bobbies, and they’ll know how to find yer mum and dad.”

“Buh…. bobbies?”

“The police,” Ringo explained, but George suddenly cut in. 

“How old are ye, Georgie?” 

Georgie raised two chubby fingers. It was then the sun rose and filled the flat and Ringo looked at them both good and proper— and cracked a chuckle. 

“What,” said George. 

“I just realised he looks like ye,” Ringo gestured to both of them. “He’s got yer ears. And yer damn eyes.”

“So?”

“He looks like a mini-you. _And_ he’s named George.”

“King!” Georgie piped up.

“ ’s Queen now,” George corrected. 

“No, King.”

“Yes Georgie, but George the Sixth died in 1952,” said Ringo. “Now his daughter, Elizabeth, is the Queen.”

Georgie blinked. “Huh?”

“El-liz-za-beth Two,” George spelt out, “has been Quh-een for twelve years.”

 _“No,”_ Georgie pouted. “King George King.”

“Whatever.”

“Geo! He’s jus’ a baby!”

“Didn’t ye say you were gonna make brekkie?” George said dismissively, heading down to the loo. “Get to it then.”

The drop from their balcony had never looked more appealing. Ringo swallowed his swears and smiled at Georgie, who had lain his little head against Ringo’s chest. He couldn’t be angry at someone who had done no wrong. And little Georgie was an _adorable_ little thing, looking up at him with bright brown eyes. 

“So Georgie, what’s your favourite food?”

“......soup.”

“Alright, I’ll see what soups we have. It’s a right cold day, ain’t it?” 

Georgie clung to his neck. “Not cold here.”

“Yeah?” Ringo hugged him closer. “Okay then, you can say what soup we’ll have. D’you like chicken soup or—”

“WHAT THE _FUCK,”_ George suddenly screamed from the loo. _“HOW DID YOU GET IN MY HOUSE?”_

Ringo gasped. He quickly turned and set Baby Georgie on the counter when

“What??” came a second voice. “I— this is MY house!”

_“No it’s not!”_

Ringo froze in his tracks. George and some bloke were arguing their bathroom down. If his hangover and desire to pummel George to pieces weren’t already raging he would’ve just continued searching for the soup. Georgie started whimpering on the counter.

“Georgie, stay here, okay?” Ringo said as he ran back in. He grabbed the saucepan from the sink in case it was a loony that had somehow climbed into their flat. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Ritchieeeeee!” Georgie grabbed at his shoulder. “Ritchie no!”

“I’ll be right back!” Ringo gently prised himself away and ran, the saucepan raised above his head. George stumbled out the loo door and crashed up against the wall, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. Ringo grasped the handle of the pan with both fists and held it back, ready for the intruder.

And then the pan fell to the floor. 

George stood in front of him in the loo. But George was also next to his foot, hand over his mouth. Ringo felt his go slack. These Georges could not have looked more different. 

George— the one in the loo, was filthy greasy. His hair was tousled and gelled into the quiff that Astrid, bless her, had long banished from their heads. He lugged an amp and a case in one hand, boxes and torn paper bags in the other. His guitar was slung upside-down on his back. He looked like he’d gone through some sort of hell. 

But when they fell on Ringo, his eyes were alight.

 _“Ringo?”_ he said, and beamed that fanged grin. “D’you remember me?”


	2. george is a crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, i am so utterly blown away and thankful to all those who commented on the first chapter! thank you all so much!!! it warmed my heart to the very core. <3 <3 <3 i wanted so badly to put this out during the weekend, but i sadly had to undertake two pet funerals and take on my terrible self doubt. 
> 
> but here it is now, and i hope that you'll enjoy this bit! thank you CelesteFitzgerald for being the Bacall to my Bogart!

What felt like ages and ages passed. George, _his_ George, let out something between a gasp and a groan as he tried to get up from beside him. But Ringo was equally frozen. His brain seemed to have shut down, for his mouth was still open but no words were coming out. 

Of course he remembered him.

“You look different,” George-in-the-loo remarked. Though his hands were full he tugged shyly at his guitar strap. “You cut yer hair.”

_Auf Wiedersehen Hamburg!_

“...I did.” 

“Not that I’m, uh, I’m really glad to see ye,” George of Hamburg took a very weighted step out of the loo. “But why are ye—” he looked around. Blinked his eyes rapidly as he finally noticed George still crumpled on the floor. “...............Peter?”

“wHAT?” George bellowed. “Is it not fucking obvious????—”

“Hold it, _hold it!”_ Ringo yelled. He took George of Hamburg by the shoulders. “What year is it?”

“1960, o’course.”

“.......................................................... Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

“Whuh- what?” he laughed awkwardly. “I _know,_ I didn’t wanna go, but next February I’ll be comin’ back and we can—”

“No, it’s....” Ringo had to swallow his breath. Twice. “George, I dunno how to tell ya this, but…”

“They deported you too?” George of Hamburg cheered up a bit. “No, that’s terrible. But… is this yer flat?”

“No. It’s 1965.” Ringo said quickly. “And that bloke on the floor is you.”

George of Hamburg’s fangy smile turned into an O. And then a thin line, which then trembled into a quivering one.

“But the good news is you’re back in England!” Ringo gave him a reassuring smile, but George of Hamburg was now looking past him at George-on-the-floor, red-eyed and pissed and his front covered in sweat. 

“What?? _What the fuck????”_

“I know, right,” George chuckled dangerously low before he curled into a snarl. “The _fuck_ are you doin’ here?”

“I don’t— this is—” he turned to Ringo once more, aggrieved. “I told the cabbie _my_ address!”

“Really? What a swell cabbie!” George scoffed loudly, getting up at last. “Future looks great, innit?”

 _“Christ!_ Don’t yell, Geo!”

“Oh, ‘m sorry! How _terrible_ of me! Two of me past selves are literally standin’ in our house, bUT I’LL TRY TA KEEP IT DOWN, THANKS RITCHIE!” 

“What? What d’you mean two of yer—”

Baby Georgie’s bawl then pierced the flat. 

“....ohhhh, fuck.”

* * *

The kettle whizzed on the stove. The sun continued streaming light into the flat. Ringo and George and George of Hamburg all stood grey-faced in the kitchen. 

But nothing could change the fact that Baby Georgie had wet his nappy.

“Hey, ’s okay,” Ringo tried ruffling his little head. “Big Georgies are gonna stay with you while we go buy you some new ones, yeah?”

“No!” Baby Georgie cried. _“Mummy!”_

“Mummy ain’t here,” George sighed. “An’ if ye think for a second that _I'm_ stayin’ with him—”

Baby Georgie screamed so fitfully he nearly toppled off the counter. Ringo caught him in record time, wincing as his bum squashed him hard on his wrist. 

_“What is wrong with you???”_ said Ringo. “For God’s sake, he’s only little! AND he’s you! Why don’t ye grow up and jus’ _help_ me for once—”

“No! God! I meant _him,”_ George hissed. He pointed a sharp finger at the oblivious George of Hamburg, who was currently smoking out of the opened kitchen window with his arse stuck out. Ringo stared at them both in disbelief. 

“What’s wrong with George o’ Hamburg??”

“He annoys the fuck outta me.”

“Well guess what George, the only thing that’s ever stoppin’ you is _you,”_ Ringo said hatefully. “Ye don’t even hafta talk to him, jus’ hold Georgie while I run to the shop.”

But George stepped out of his way as Ringo tried to hand the baby over. “No. I’ll go.”

“What?”

“He said _he’ll_ go,” George of Hamburg repeated, a great smile on his face. “Careful out there.”

Thankfully Georgie seemed to calm from his outburst just then, curling himself against Ringo’s chest. But George scowled fierce and terrible. He narrowed his eyes at himself, but was only met with his own shit-eating grin, five years younger and shielded by a wall of smoke. He snatched up his wallet, turned and slammed the door as he left.

“Fuckin’ hell,” said Ringo. 

“God, ‘m a dick when I'm old,” George of Hamburg said in disgust. “I hope ye know I would never say that to you.”

“Well you ain’t doin’ too good a jobba that at the moment, are ye?”

George of Hamburg let out a laugh. _“He_ certainly isn’t.” 

And Ringo found himself laughing as well. 

It took several deep breaths and a good cold face wash to shake Ringo from the weirdness of mopping up Baby Georgie in the tub. It was just George as a baby. George, but smaller. George, who trusted and needed him. Or so he hoped. 

Georgie squirmed away from him at first. 

“Georgie— Georgie no,” said Ringo. “Don’t ye want yer soppy nappy off?”

“I wan’ mummy.”

“ ‘m sure mummy wants ye to be a clean Georgie, now don’t you?”

“Mmm.”

“How’s ‘bout I give you a bath?” Ringo said. “With bubbles? An’ so you’ll be clean when Big Georgie comes back with nappies?”

“Eughhhh,” George of Hamburg grit his teeth from the doorway. 

“Euck!” Georgie copied him. 

“Thought I told you to stay out,” Ringo groaned. George just had to make everything so difficult. “Please, Georgie.” 

“Euuuuuck!”

 _“Pleaseeeee!_ I’ll let you have lots of bubbles!”

“EuuUUUUck,” he said. And tried to climb out of the end of the tub. Ringo shot George of Hamburg a dirty look. 

“Now look what you’ve done!”

“Sorry,” he chuckled nervously. “D’you want help?”

“No.”

“I’ll hold… _me_ down fer ye,” he offered. 

“Jus’ stay outta my way!”

Amazingly, _this_ George did as he was told. George of Hamburg stood guilty and pouting at the door, his back turned in a huff. It took aeons to get the baby undressed in the tub and the entire bottle of bubble soap to keep him there. He cried inconsolably as Ringo scrubbed him and rinsed him and tried to make funny faces to make peace with him. Even after he was washed, he screamed and pissed down Ringo’s legs when he lifted him out.

Dear fuckin’ Christ.

Baby Georgie sulked as Ringo wrapped him in a towel, but didn’t make a sound or try to escape. Ringo let out a sigh of relief. If one of them had taken pity on him at last, maybe the rest would do the same. Wouldn’t they? Georgie let out a string of adorable giggles as Ringo dried his hair with the blow dryer, squealing and kicking his tiny feet. Mid-drying, he clambered up into Ringo’s arms, wanting to be held. 

Ringo let out another happy sigh. He loved a happy baby. Maybe all they needed to do was eat that longed-for brekkie and everything and everyone would be settled in right where they were. 

When Ringo stepped out of the bathroom, George of Hamburg had vanished. The scent of smoke hung in the air throughout the flat— and it wasn’t from the cooking. 

Ringo ceased bouncing Baby Georgie as he stomped his way into the kitchen. And just as he suspected, George of Hamburg was smoking in front of the open fridge, grubby fingers of his other hand spooning globules of blackcurrant jam. He started and nearly dropped the pot as he met Ringo’s eyes. 

“ ‘e won’t tell me where ye keep the knives,” he reasoned, deflating. 

“Top drawer,” Ringo said sharply. But then he saw George. 

_His_ George. 

George, who had returned from his shopping trip. George, who was sitting fuck-all at their kitchen window, full ashtray perched on the sill, lighting yet another stick as he kicked bags of something soft under the stool he sat upon. 

The soft bags of _nappies._

Ringo had had enough of George. 

_“Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?”_ Ringo spat, nearly sending George jolting off his stool. Though he toppled the ashtray in as he steadied, spilling it directly into one of the nappy bags. And there it splintered noisily into large, cindering pieces of glass. 

“Fucking— Ritchie, ye _scared_ me!” George had the audacity to take another puff as he spoke. “I thought you’d be ages—”

“Big words comin’ from you,” Ringo pulled a smidge of towel to Baby Georgie’s poor sniffly nose. “How long ‘ave ye been sittin’ there? _Hamburg!_ How long has he been sittin’ there?”

“Uh,” George of Hamburg shut the fridge door immediately. “Maybe, um, _twenty_ minutes give or take...”

 ** _“TWENTY?”_** Ringo felt like he might explode. _“You sat there with the nappies doin’ nothing for TWENTY minutes—”_

“Hamburg said ye didn’t want him in the way!”

“BUT YOU HAD THE NAPPIES!” Ringo positively shrieked. “You came back with the one thing I needed to buy for the baby and _ye never once thought to come check on me??”_

“Ritchie, I— I was _resting!”_

“Resting! Because oh boo-hoo- _hoo,_ goin’ to the shop is jus’ so _hard!”_

“Yeah, what the hell,” George of Hamburg scoffed half-heartedly. “Way to go, mate.”

 _“Now_ he talks!” George thundered, standing up sharpish. “Why didn’t _you_ jus’ take ‘em to the loo for me?”

“Ringo said he wanted me outta his way!” 

“What?? Are you seriously that fuckin’ _thick?”_

“Oh, I dunno,” George of Hamburg’s eyes were wide and aflame. “Cause you’re the _oldest_ an’ you know everythin’ an’ I’m jus’ a little—”

“SHUDDUP! SHUT UP!” Ringo roared. _“ALL OF YOU SHUT UP RIGHT NOW!”_

The Georges went silent. All except poor Baby Georgie, sobbing in terror of the noise. 

“You’re all— _you’re_ a motherfucking _git,_ George,” Ringo seethed. “AND _I’M_ THE OLDEST, GOD DAMN YOU!”

George’s brow furrowed, but he tossed out his cig and stepped forward slowly, his hand outstretched as if to take his. “Ritchie, I’m sorry—”

“No you’re not,” Ringo took a step back. “For someone who hates being the _baby_ all the time you’re making a fuckin’ donkey’s arse outta growin’ up.”

George flinched. “Ritchie, love—”

 _“Love?”_ Ringo sneered. “Fat load of it! You think I don’t know ‘bout the groupies? That model from the train?”

“I— no, God, I’m not seeing her anymore—”

 _“Anymore?”_ Ringo challenged, and delighted sickeningly in the anguish on George’s face. “Well, good! Because I don’t wanna see _you_ anymore either! You cause me so much _shit_ that I feel like I’m gonna die from it! I dream, you know, _dream_ ‘bout jumpin’ off the fuckin’ balcony every single night so I don’t hafta wake up to your _arsehole_ face, cook yer _bloody_ meals, _and wipe your fuckin’ arse everyday!”_

Poor Baby Georgie’s whimpers turned into a full-blown cry. From behind him George of Hamburg let out a torrent of whispered swears. But George and the flat went as silent as the dead. He blinked rapidly, hands still stopped shakily in mid-reach. On sight of these shaky hands did Ringo realise the tears in his own eyes. 

“You…” George bit down on his lip. “You really think that?”

“Yes,” Ringo said, burning from his own acidity. “And so help me, if I ever see yer _fuckin’_ face again, if I ever got to spend another _second_ with you, I swear to _God_ that I’ll—”

A loud crash sounded out from the loo. 

“oH FOR FUCK’S SAKE,” George of Hamburg jumped. Baby Georgie cried more pitifully than ever, ploughing his head into Ringo’s neck, followed suit by George, flinging and latching himself to Ringo’s arm. 

Ringo barely had time to shake him off when an odd man in a hat scurried down their hall and right for their door. George of Hamburg expertly dodged out of his way, and the man lunged past George and Ringo for the kitchen phone that was attached to the wall. 

Ringo hugged Baby Georgie close to him on instinct. “Who the fuck are—”

“What year is this? _WHAT YEAR IS THIS?”_

“1965!” George answered. 

The man practically tore their phone and the notepad hanging near it to pieces searching for a number. He spun the rotary frantically, clutching the receiver so tightly to his face that his hat fell to the floor. 

“Hello? Is this John? John Lennon? Listen, I don’t know if I can actually change anythin’ or whatever it is, but you mustn't _ever_ step outta yer house on Monday nights, even if you absolutely have to. Not even if ye hafta make music with yer damned wife. Ya hear me? Stay in every Monday night. Bye, love you.”

There was a loud confused noise on the other end, but the phone was hung right up. The mystery caller man turned to them all, and Ringo and the Georges could only stare. George of Hamburg pointed at him in shock.

This was _also_ George, no doubt at all. Except this one had on a weird gardening getup complete with muddy gloves and boots, his hair blown out all around him and was older by give or take twenty thirty years.

And was about _fifty_ times more beautiful. 

“Uhh.” Ringo said eloquently. 

“What.” George-gripping-his-arm scowled. “The. Fuck.” 

“It’s a… a very long story,” said this new George. He looked around at their flat in amusement. “Let’s hope we don’t hafta worry ‘bout that now…”

“Oh, fuckin’ hell,” said George. “And when are _you_ from?”

“What?”

“What… what year are ye from,” asked Ringo.

“1987.”

“What the _FOCK?”_ yelled George of Hamburg. “Are you sure???”

“Er, quite.” New George slipped his hands out of his grimy gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of his overalls. Ringo noticed then with the loud beats of his heart that New George was looking him up and down. “Now isn’t this a nice dream?”

The awkward silence in the flat suddenly turned into something else. Maybe wonder. This George was flesh and blood and from the _future_. The Georges and Ringo couldn’t take their eyes off this one. Even Baby Georgie had stopped whimpering, blinking his red eyes at the newcomer. George of Hamburg had lowered his hand. George, still hanging onto Ringo’s arm, seemed to lighten through his grip.

But what Ringo really couldn’t take his eyes off of at the moment was the onyx ring on this new George’s hand. He gazed at its twin down at his front.

“Oh, shit,” Ringo squeaked. And then he blacked out.


End file.
